Allen Saxon

My father moved his law office from the front room of my family’s home into his new building a block away in 1958. He practiced law from behind a large dark wooden 1940s vintage desk from the time he opened his practice after returning from World War II.

After he passed away in 1985, the task of clearing out his desk fell to me. The desk was filled with much office detritus: paper clips, refills for two staplers (one broken, one not). A few notes on yellow legal pads, rubber bands some of which were so old and dry they fell apart when I picked them up).

Nestled into one drawer I found an old cigar box. As a Cub Scout I had covered it with contact paper, placed my den number on it and presented it as a Father’s Day gift. He had used it to hold odds and ends, advertising pens that had run dry, a broken ruler, basically stuff that should have been relegated to a wastebasket years before.

The box now sits in my desk, holding a few toy figures from my childhood while waiting for my grandchildren to become old enough to discover its contents.

I have often heard of the love that goes into handmade gifts, but I think the love comes from those who treasure them.